


as long as the stars are above you

by Solariz



Series: basking in the moonlight [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Short & Sweet, be warned: nicky's mum dies in this, but it's not exactly explicit i promise, it's a peaceful passing but i understand that it's a sensitive subject, it's related to childbirth, ofc is nicky's mum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solariz/pseuds/Solariz
Summary: Three short scenes from the life of Beatrice, relating to her love for her youngest son, Nicolò.
Relationships: Nicolò di Genova's mum & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: basking in the moonlight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204679
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	as long as the stars are above you

**Author's Note:**

> this came to me at like 2am and i just had to put it in words, which is why i finished doing so at 5 am and my beautiful beta, [eli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odyssxus/pseuds/odyssxus), had to deal with the raw material that came from that. i apologise, love, and thank you again for being so patient and cool about my run on sentences and weird preposition use, promise it's a problem i also have in spanish lmao
> 
> anyway, please enjoy this self indulgent little thing 💜

Beatrice was not usually given to fits of sentiment. Nearly fifteen years of marriage and five children would do that to a woman. The rhythm of a poor woman’s life did not allow for much sentimentality in the first place. Beatrice had to work so they could eat and she also had to cook, clean, tend to their garden and animals and mend the clothes of five rambunctious children. And then she had to mend and tailor the clothing of those who paid her to as well.

That said, a part of Beatrice’s heart had softened when her womb had quickened for the fourth time with her beautiful Nicolò. His had been a pleasant pregnancy in contrast to her three previous boys. She hadn’t been plagued by illness, and Nicolò hadn’t moved as roughly as the other boys had. Her Nicoletto had been the perfect little boy even before seeing the world for the first time.

Seeing him cowering away from the door every time he had reason to think his father was back from the docks made her hard heart crumble.

She abandoned her sewing and scooped the four year old into her arms. ‘What is the matter, my sweet?’ she asked, but didn’t allow time for an answer. ‘Why don’t you sit with your mamma and help her with this cloak, hmm?’

‘Sì, mamma!’ her baby answered, with all the exuberance a boy that young could muster. Her heart warmed in her chest, because her Nicoletto rarely showed excitement. He only did so with her, and only when they were alone. How lovely and strange, that she’d had three sons before him who had never felt like they belonged to her, and to suddenly have Nicolò. None of her children were hers the way Nicoletto was, not even little Agnes, who was peacefully sleeping off the softened minestrone Beatrice had fed her.

Her little man climbed her skirts to settle comfortably on her lap, twisting just so in a practiced way that meant she could feel him close to her heart but also allowed her to continue to work on her sewing. She had such a considerate child, she thought fondly.

Nicolò’s little head rested on her breast. He occupied himself with her long braided hair, which he caressed and turned this way and that, seemingly fascinated with its texture and colour.

* * *

She was not far from Death’s door, she could tell.

The midwife had all but strong-armed her husband into carrying her from the birthing chair to their bed, while she herself took care of their newborn babe.

Beatrice knew she was not long for this world, as the birth itself and the ruckus that followed were a blur to her. The only things she could pinpoint was how dazed she felt and the absence of her youngest child’s cries.

Of course, she had four sons and a daughter already. Her eldest three were far from her influence now, two of them men grown. Her sweet Nicoletto, at six, had been growing steadily, and was a quiet, serious boy. He showed a vast well of patience with every chore given to him, and when she tasked him with entertaining his younger sister.

Finally, a newborn’s cry filled the air. Her newest child had not come to the world easily, not that any of her children had, except Nicolò, but this time she could feel how taxed her body was. She could still see grey edging her usually sharp gaze.

‘It’s another girl, Beatrice,’ the midwife declared softly, depositing her in Beatrice’s weak arms.

The air turned cold. Her husband, Guido, had heard the midwife despite her low voice.

‘Another girl.’ There was an angry pause. ‘Isn’t it enough that Nicolò turned soft like a woman, or that you had the loud brat that followed him?’

It was no use defending herself, or reacting to the insult to her children. Guido was never going to be happy with a daughter, and while he had been satisfied when Nicolò was born, he quickly changed his heart. A soft son was worse than a daughter in his eyes.

But Beatrice had endured seventeen years of marriage to this turbulent man. He had his sons, Otto, Stefano and Michele, who made him proud by being as loud and brash as he was. And as violent as well, given the bruise she had once spied on Otto’s wife. She, in turn, had her Nicoletto, gentle and soft spoken, with a very intense stare for such a young body.

‘Her name is Branca,’ she declared after having lowered her eyes and nodded submissively to appease her husband.

It didn’t work, of course, but she didn’t take it to heart anymore. Her husband was a brute and he did not care for trivialities like her youngest daughter’s name or the needs of his children. The midwife nodded, and she was assured that at least one person would care to let Nicoletto and Agnes know their youngest sister’s name if she couldn’t do it herself.

Yes, Beatrice thought, the end was near. The fire illuminating the winter night was raging, but its heat didn’t reach her. In the distance, as if miles away, she could hear Branca’s cries, her husband’s harsh tones, and, like a gift from above, the soft voice of her Nicoletto, singing to soothe both of his younger sisters and his ailing mother.

* * *

The next time Beatrice awoke it was to the slight weight of her youngest children surrounding her. The room was dimly lit by the hearth, but she could hear the noise outside that meant it was currently daytime.

‘Mamma?’ said a soft voice to her left.

She turned her heavy head slightly and saw her Nicoletto cradling baby Branca in his arms, with Agnes resting her head on his hip, both girls sleeping soundly.

‘Nicolò,’ she exhaled. She found that speaking even that dear little word took too much energy. ‘Nicoletto mio.’

Her son regarded her with his serious green eyes, so perceptive at such a young age.

‘I brought water from the well, mamma,’ he informed her. She could hear what he meant to say with those words: _please let me help you, let me do this for you_. Oh. Her precious Nicoletto. The world didn’t deserve him.

‘Later, cielo. Now, look at me,’ she waited until he met her eyes, which she knew was always difficult for him to do, his mother being a rare exception. Nicolò could feel the serious air around them, because he humoured her. ‘Have you fed the hens today, my Nicolò?’

‘Sì, mamma. As soon as papà was gone.’

She hummed. ‘And how many of the hens bit you when you tried to take their eggs?’ she asked as playfully as she could manage.

Her moonlit child was serious and intelligent, but he was still six years old, and so he giggled, his smile widening and showing his teeth. Her eyes went to his beauty mark, which accentuated his deep dimples.

Beatrice could feel her strength failing her for what she thought would be the last time but truly, there was no better sight to say goodbye to the world to. Her beautiful son, smiling and giggling, holding both of his sisters in his young but nurturing arms, his light hair lit by the glow of the fire.

‘My Nicoletto,’ she whispered. ‘That smile of yours will make someone fall deeply in love with you. I know it.’

She used the last of her strength to lift her hand and caress Nicolò’s soft cheek, still innocently dimpled for her.

Sweet heaven, how she loved him. She knew that her battered heart had really started beating for the first time when she had first felt Nicoletto quicken in her womb, when she had held him as a newborn and he had pierced her with his deep eyes, and when he had sung for her with his gentle voice. Her heart had room for him in a way it didn’t for anyone else. She was truly glad to go holding him, though she feared leaving him at the rough mercies of his father, with the duty of looking after his sisters.

‘Would you sing for me, tesoro,’ she asked. She managed to wind her arm around Nicoletto, Agnes and Branca, smelling their sweet youthful scent.

When the light left her eyes she could still hear her baby singing for her for the last time. This, she thought, was what true peace felt like.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first part of a series of works of this sort which are already making noise in my head.
> 
> title comes from how long will i love you by ellie goulding, whose voice sometimes makes me feel like i'm listening to angels sing.
> 
> and please feel free to give me a long distance hug on [tumblr](https://nicoalkaysani.tumblr.com/), i promise i'll cherish it 😙


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